


Every Color Illuminated

by birdafterdark



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Goths, Humor, Javert is baffled by the Internet, M/M, Misunderstandings, POV Alternating, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-10-25 15:22:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20726408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdafterdark/pseuds/birdafterdark
Summary: Cosette, 16 and lonely after being homeschooled for her entire life, signs up for a high school study group and meets a friend she calls "E." This sets off a series of events that upend the quiet lives Cosette and her dad have made for themselves -- and the chaotic ones E. and her own father figure are leading.





	1. Black

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ironicgeeness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ironicgeeness/gifts).

> Gee asked for: 
> 
> \- Cosette goes through a goth phase;   
\- Buff Cosette;   
\- Javert discovers the internet and places himself in some bother;   
\- A day at the beach;   
and Gee gets what she wants. 
> 
> At least, some of what she wants. This is still a work in progress (so sorry; it WILL be updated) and some of the prompts may be loosely interpreted. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy, friend!

It was a Thursday morning in mid-May when Jean Valjean broke his adopted daughter’s favorite coffee mug, the first in a series of events that shattered the peace in the little gardener’s cottage behind the Covington estate. 

Valjean had just finished stirring a heaping spoonful of sugar into his own coffee, in the same chipped and faded mug he always used, when he heard Cosette coming down the stairs. Humming to himself, he reached for the cup she favored — a tall, thin thing featuring cats prowling across the roofs of pastel townhouses. 

Then Cosette entered the kitchen, Valjean stopped humming abruptly and the mug hit the floor with a smash that made them both jump.

Cosette tutted at him, kneeling to pick up the mess. “Oh, Papa,” she sighed, frowning. “It was the nicest one we had!”

Valjean watched her, frozen. It was a moment before he could speak.

“Cosette! What happened to your hair? And what on earth are you wearing? Is everything OK? Did someone die?” 

“No one  _died_, Dad, god. Why would you ask that?” The coffee cup had split cleanly into two ceramic pieces, which she placed solemnly on the counter, as if she couldn’t bear to throw them away. 

“But you’re wearing all black. You wear black when someone dies.” 

“Is that the _only_ time you’re allowed to wear black?” Cosette poured herself some coffee in another mug and took a sip, her mouth puckering a little. Valjean had never seen her drink it black, and he resisted the urge to pinch himself. Cosette, drinking black coffee, wearing all black, looking strangely mournful — he felt he must be dreaming. 

“But … your hair! What happened to your hair?” 

Cosette’s frown deepened. “I dyed it. Obviously.” 

Valjean couldn’t stop himself from staring at that hair. The night before, her soft brown curls had been held back from her face with a floral bandanna. Today, the the wavy hair that tumbled over her shoulders was jet black. It clashed with her face, which looked even paler than normal. Her blue eyes were lost behind thick layers of eyeliner and eyeshadow, all black, and her lips were painted a deep purple. She looked like a completely different person, a sickly macabre version of herself, a vampiric creature that had recently stepped out of the grave.

And in the place of the colorful vintage dresses the girl usually favored was an off-shoulder, long-sleeved dress of black lace that came to her mid-thigh, black fishnet stockings, and shiny black platform boots that nearly reached her knees. She wore a simple black ribbon choker around her neck.

She was still standing, sipping the coffee, staring at him. Her eyes held something of a challenge. 

“Honey,” Valjean began cautiously, trying to find the right words, “you’ve never dressed like this before. What’s wrong? Are you depressed?” 

Cosette’s eyes began to narrow and he rapidly backtracked. 

“Never mind. You don’t have to answer that. You know … we’ve both been working so hard lately. You’ve been so busy with that study group you started that I hardly ever see you. Why don’t we take a day off and go to the beach? Remember how you used to love the beach as a little girl? You were so cute. You’d bury my feet in the sand — “ 

“Eww, the beach? No.” Cosette wrinkled her nose and put the empty mug down on the counter. “Besides, I have plans.”

“Plans? What plans?” Then, desperately, as Cosette turned her back to him, he said sternly, “You can’t go out looking like that.”

“Watch me.”

The door slammed. Valjean flinched.

* * *

Javert strode heavily into his office, set the hideous laptop case on his desk with a dull thud, and fell into his desk chair. He allowed himself a moment to stare moodily out the window and unleash an inner monologue of curses before calling for his intern. 

“Éponine!”

She arrived in his doorway looking wary, all awkward angles and frizzy hair.

“Close the door,” he said in a low voice that came out testier than he intended. 

Once the door was closed and Éponine had settled into an armchair across from him, Javert indicated the laptop case with a sweep of his arm and, unsure of what to say, simply grunted. 

“So .....” Éponine drummed her fingers on the armrest and gazed at the nylon case on his desk. “I take it your talk with the captain didn’t go well?”

“_Ob-_viously,” Javert drawled. “I didn’t go out and buy one of these godforsaken machines for myself. And if I _were _todo such a fool thing, I can assure you I wouldn’t be carrying it around in ... whatever this is.” His nose wrinkled in disgust as he indicated the case’s shiny, plasticky surface and velcroed enclosures. 

“Well,” the teenager ventured, her tone cautious, “computers are important these days. This was bound to happen eventually. You always complain about how annoyed they get when you file your arrest reports in longhand. Maybe this will be a good thing!”

  
Javert fixed her with what he hoped was a scathing look.

“You know, Detective, I agree that a lot of what they want you to do with the Internet is silly. Like, does a police department really need a TikTok?”

Javert had no idea what “a tick-tock” meant, but he had the feeling that his head would explode if he found out, so he continued to say nothing. 

“But the Internet can be really useful! It’s just another way of gathering information. You can look things up faster than you can in books, you can communicate with the public, you can even use it to find information about criminals.”

Javert arched his eyebrow ever so slightly at the last comment. “Oh really? And what information could I find on the computer that wouldn’t be found old-fashioned way?”

“You could look up suspects on social media. If you get good at it, you could find all sorts of clues that way and even track them down in real life. People are dumb about the kind of stuff they put online.”

He regarded Éponine thoughtfully. She seemed genuinely eager to prove the machine’s usefulness, and she _did_ have quite a bit of insider knowledge on the habits of lawbreakers. Plus, she had taught him to use his department-issued iPhone, and as unnecessary as the device was it had proved useful on occasion.

“Social media,” he said, pronouncing the words slowly and cautiously, like someone weighing a risky activity. “Is that the thing where they leave out the ‘e’? You know, Tind_rrrrrrrrrr_, Grind_rrrrrrrrrr,_ what are the others? There’s Twit_rrrrrrr_. Aptly named, as it’s frequented by twits.”

The girl was looking at him strangely now.

“What? Are you one of those Twit-ers?”

“No,” Éponine said, continuing to look at him as though he’d just revealed something astounding. “I mean, yes. I mean, that’s not really what …. Never mind. It’s just … how do you know what Grindr is?”

Javert felt his face growing hot. “I know things!” he said defensively.

In truth, he had no clue what “Grindr” and the rest were, but he knew there was a rash of “applications” which people used to “network” that seemed to think it perfectly acceptable to drop the “e” from their names, as though English spelling standards were merely suggestions. He’d noticed someone looking at the “Grindr” one while riding the subway in New York City. It was some sort of garish yellow directory of muscle-bound men, and, based on the shifty way the man kept looking over his shoulder, it seemed likely that these men could be hired to perform illegal activities. He’d had the service filed away in his mental “things to investigate on a slow work day” folder ever since.

“So is that where I’ll find the criminals? Grind_rrrrr_? Is that what your parents used?” he demanded.

“It’s … I … no, it’s not …” the girl was at a loss for words. Finally, she sighed.

“Let’s just start with Facebook.”

* * *

“She’s a teenager, after all, Ultime. She’s just going through a phase.” Lola paused to take a drag on her cigarette, a smirk playing on her lips. “A very goth phase.”

Valjean snorted, yanking up another weed and tossing it on his pile. “Cosette’s not a —” he began, then stopped his work and stared up at Lola with a horrified expression. “Oh my god. Cosette’s gone goth!”

Lola laughed at him, blew a puff of smoke out of the corner of her mouth, and reached down to help Valjean up. “It’s nothing to worry about. Wearing black and dying her hair — there’s no permanent damage. Just ignore it and she’ll eventually go back to her wholesome little self. She’s probably just doing it for shock value, hoping to get a reaction out of you.” 

They made their way to the garden bench, Valjean pensively tugging off his soil-coated gloves while Lola smoked. After a few moments’ silence, Lola lightly touched Valjean’s arm and spoke with a more reassuring tone. 

“Trust me: I was a goth teenager once, too.”

Valjean gave her a small smile but said nothing. _Yeah, of course _you _were_, he thought, though he’d never say such a thing out loud — even in his head it sounded mean. It was true that Lola was wise and maternal and someone he admired in many ways. But she was, at her core, of the same breed as Valjean: tough and scarred and closed-off. She was also rebellious, far more than he ever was. All the rule-breaking he’d done in his younger years, all the questionable decisions he was ashamed of, had been born out of necessity. Lola, though — Lola reveled in thumbing her nose at authority. He couldn’t begin to imagine what forms that had taken over the years. 

They had an understanding, the old gardener with the French name and mop of white curls and the thirty-something housekeeper with the raspy voice and cynical smile. They didn’t ask about the other’s past, and they didn’t need to. They were well aware of what it meant to be employed by the Covington estate. 

While their wealthy neighbors donated large sums of money to universities and museums — the humbler ones anonymously; the others in hopes of seeing their names in marble — the Covingtons expressed their largesse by handing out second chances. A small staff had cared for the manor and its residents for decades, most of them staying on for only a year or so. Among them were former addicts and ex-convicts and undocumented immigrants, people whose paper trail or lack thereof made them nearly unemployable. On occasion someone would lapse into old behaviors and either stop showing up to work or be so unreliable that even the patient Rev. Covington fired them, but for the most part they built up their work history and got a solid referral from the old man and moved on. 

“Ultime Fauchelevent” and Lola Garcia Flores were the constants. They’d been employed by Covington for nearly a decade. They knew better than to ask each other why. 

Valjean tilted his head slightly. Lola had lit up a third cigarette and was gazing off in the distance, watching a tabby cat stalking through the marigolds. 

“Why, though?” he asked, uncomfortably aware of how small his voice sounded. 

“Why what?” 

“Why would Cosette be trying to shock me? She’s never been like that.” 

As a bright-eyed, affectionate child, Cosette had clung to Valjean’s hand and followed him everywhere, never questioning why they spent so much time in the isolated New England estate. Even as a teenager she’d been mild-mannered. Valjean had braced himself for the kind of behavior he saw on the cop dramas he watched compulsively: screaming and cursing and slamming doors, facial piercings and broken curfews and alcohol on her breath. But what adolescence brought was not rage or rashness but an ever-widening chasm between them. Cosette began to say things that surprised him; her opinions and actions were no longer so predictable. And now _this_. Why?

“Sometimes kids just want attention. Any kind of attention.”

“But —” 

Lola cut him off. “Ultime, I _know_ you dote on that girl like she’s the second coming. She certainly doesn’t lack for attention. But I _also_ know that you keep secrets from her. And so does she. She’s asked me about your past, _her_ past, and of course I didn’t have anything to tell her. If I had to guess, she’s feeling a little lost, a little frustrated, and this is her way of expressing it.” 

A pause. Then she added, gently, “Maybe it’s time for a talk.”

Valjean stared intently at the ground. 

“I’ll try. If she doesn’t slam the door on me again.”

There was the sound of Lola trying, and failing, to suppress a chuckle. “I’m still not over the fact that _Cosette_, prim little _Cosette_, slammed the door in your face.” 

Valjean sighed deeply.

“Hey,” said Lola, nudging Valjean to get him to look up at her. “Everything’s going to be fine. Just give it a little time. Act normal. Maybe even express some interest in her new lifestyle. Remember, the worst thing you can do is overreact.”

* * *

Éponine used his department email address to sign him up for Facebook and helped him format a secure password, but there was one more requirement to meet before she could open the account and Javert was refusing to cooperate.

“I don’t _want_ to give the computer my first name,” he said from the corner, where he was slouching in a chair with his arms crossed.

“For the last time, it’s not ‘the computer,’ it’s a website where you can talk to your friends and show them what’s going on in your life. It would be weird if you only went by your last name. And more importantly, you _can’t_ sign up without a first name.”

“Fine. I don’t want to sign up anyway.”

“Fine. Then that fuckhead Donovan will get promoted instead of you and he’ll be your superior. I certainly wouldn’t want to be in that situation just because I had a weird hangup about my first name. But it’s your life.” Éponine made a show of reaching up as if to close the laptop.

She saw Javert’s face twitch, put her arm down, and stared at him until he uncrossed his arms, sighed heavily, and came to stand behind her.

“Only because Donovan would ruin the department,” he growled. “I.”

“You … what?”

“No, I. You can use the initial I for my first name.”

She shot him an exasperated look but complied. A small pink box appeared when she clicked the “Sign Up” button.

_Names on Facebook can't have too many periods. Learn more about our name policies._

Javert made an angry noise in his throat.

“OK, get rid of the period.”

_First or last names on Facebook can't be too short. Learn more about our name policies._

“What is this ‘name policy’ bullshit? This Friendbook can’t tell me what to call myself. That should be illegal. Maybe it is illegal. Maybe …”

Éponine tried typing “Detective” in the first name field while Javert muttered something about consulting with a lawyer.

_We require everyone to use the name they use in everyday life, what their friends call them, on Facebook. Learn more about our name policies._

“THAT IS THE NAME I USE IN EVERYDAY LIFE. Tell ‘Facebook’ that that’s the name I use in everyday life.”

Sensing that she didn’t have much time before the cop tried to do something massively stupid — whether that would be throwing the laptop out the window, attempting to arrest Mark Zuckerberg, or searching for a way to time-travel to the nineteenth century, she couldn’t be sure — Éponine hit backspace a few times, then enter.

“There you go. You’re now on Facebook, Detec Javert.”

* * *

In the afternoon, Éponine ducked into Javert’s office to see how he was making out. She found him hunched over the laptop, his nose nearly touching the screen. She caught a glimpse of a pleasant-looking white-haired man before Javert noticed her and began clicking frantically, apparently trying to close the window but causing it to go full screen instead. Flustered, Javert slammed the laptop shut.

“Stupid machine ...” he muttered, not meeting her eye and fidgeting with things on his desk. A flush was spreading across his face.

Éponine had never seen her boss like this before. Javert was not a man who embarrassed easily. She was still trying to process this strange behavior when he broke the awkward silence by snapping at her.

“So? What do you want?”

“Well, I came to see how you were doing with the computer,” she said, unable to suppress a smirk, “but I see that you’ve fully embraced social media.”

“I have not,” he said defiantly, finally turning to look at her. “This FaceThing is full of barely literate halfwits and is a massive waste of time. I was merely ... exploring. For research purposes. Know your enemy and all that.”

“Oh, yes, I saw you ‘researching.’ Looking up hardened criminals like that old man.” She paused, realizing that it would be wise to leave it there and not needle Javert about something he was clearly embarrassed about. She tried to think of the best way to steer the conversation back to her Internet lessons, but she noticed that Javert was still blushing and seemed to be distracted — if she didn’t know better, she might have thought he was daydreaming.

Fuck it. She had to know what this was about.

“So,” she said conspiratorially, pulling a chair around to his side of the desk and taking a seat next to him, “is he the one that got away?”

She leaned forward, elbow resting on the desk and chin in her hand.

Javert started, sitting upright and staring at her incredulously. “How do you know about that?”

“Oh, everyone has that one person,” she said, waving a hand dismissively.

He looked skeptical.

“Not _everyone_.”

“Well, most people, anyway.”

Javert let the silence linger for a moment, then said, not quite meeting her eye, “I don’t like talking about it. I feel it reflects poorly on me. Although perhaps it’s more common than I thought.”

“Oh, it is _so_ common!” Éponine was delighted. For once, she felt able to give back in this relationship. Javert had pulled her out of a bad situation, gotten her a place to live and a job and helped get her education back on track. She knew he was always there if she needed him, despite his cold and distant persona. He was like a second father — a better father — but the problem was that he wasn’t her father or a relative or even a family friend; he was a random cop to whom she owed her livelihood. Despite his reassurance that she didn’t owe him anything, she desperately wanted to pay him back.

And a much-needed heart-to-heart about his love life? That was something Éponine could actually do for him.

Plus, it gave her the opportunity to gossip.

“You know Brantley, that guy who recently transferred over from Vice? His was some chick named Daisy.” And, lowering her voice and leaning in further, she added gleefully, “They say she was a prostitute.”

“Well, the prostitute bit isn’t very surprising, coming from Vice,” Javert said distantly. He seemed to be thinking deeply.

“Do you want to take a look at him?” he ventured. “I think he still lives around here. Maybe you could help me find him. Not on department time, of course,” he added hurriedly.

“Psh, people do that stuff at work all the damn time, Javert.”

“Well, we aren’t ‘people,’ Éponine. We follow the rules.” Éponine took advantage of Javert fumbling with the computer to roll her eyes. “And neither of us is being paid to go on a wild goose chase.”

“Oh, don’t call it a wild goose chase!” She playfully swatted his arm, causing him to flinch. “Have more confidence in yourself than that.”

The white-haired man’s face was filling the screen again. “I couldn’t figure out how to get back to his main file,” Javert admitted.

“File?”

“You know. With his name and information and comments written by other people?”

“_Profile_, Javert, not ‘file.’ This isn’t the police database.” Éponine took over the laptop. The man in the profile picture seemed to be in his early sixties, with a mop of perfectly white curls and warm brown eyes. He was standing in some sort of garden and leaning on a hoe, giving an adoring sort of look to the person taking his photo. His cover photo seemed to be a picture of the same garden, full of climbing vines and roses. The name next to the picture was an unusual French one: “Ultime Fauchelevent.”

Éponine stared. _Fauchelevent _— she knew that name! She’d made a friend named Cosette Fauchelevent at the study group Javert helped her find. Could this be a relative? Perhaps even her father?

She opened her mouth to say all this, but took one look at Javert and thought better of it. No need to get his hopes up if it was the wrong Fauchelevent. And if Cosette was related, well … maybe they could set up some kind of surprise …

Javert, as usual, appeared impassive, but she thought she could detect a dreamy look in his eyes as he stared at Ultime’s picture.

“I’ll lock you up soon enough,” Javert said in a low voice.

“You mean lock him down,” Éponine said, laughing, “but I’m glad to see that your confidence is back.”

Javert’s icy blue eyes flickered in her direction for a moment before fixing on Ultime again. “Same thing. I will seize him and devour him.”

Éponine stared. The normally stoic detective had expressed a surprising range of emotions today, but ‘horny’ was not one she’d ever expected out of him, and she was starting to feel uncomfortable.

Javert seemed to sense the awkward silence. “I mean, I want to see him in handcuffs,” he muttered, still staring.

“Oh. Okay,” Éponine stammered. “Uh, this is all getting a bit too kinky for me, so I’m gonna go now.”

Javert, lost in thought, didn’t appear to hear her.


	2. Gray

The gray rat scurried up Éponine’s arm and rested on her shoulder, its pink nose and one beady eye barely visible from within the forest of thick ginger hair.

Cosette made an effort to suppress her repulsion. Éponine swore that they were sweet and friendly creatures, so she was trying, but — really? _Rats?_ Cosette had grown up digging in the soil and loved all manner of creepy-crawlies, but rodents made her shiver. They were cute, she admitted, when seen in a nature documentary or perhaps behind glass, but they didn’t belong in a home and absolutely should not be going anywhere near anyone’s hair. Especially not the luscious,unruly mane that Éponine sported.

Feeling uncomfortable under the rat’s steady gaze, Cosette allowed herself to fall back onto the bed — or, rather, the bare twin mattress with a few bunched-up threadbare blankets. 

“I thought that cop was supposed to be taking care of you,” she said, gazing up at the 1970s-style popcorn ceiling. “This place is depressing. You don’t even have sheets.”

“I just haven’t gotten around to buying sheets yet. Javert pays the rent, plus his own, and I don’t think he has much left over after that. I’m fine without sheets anyway.” Éponine’s attention was fixed on the other rat, a brown and white thing that was exploring a little obstacle course she’d set up in the cage. “I’d rather spend the money on the girls.”

“Oh my god, E, you should take care of yourself before you spoil _rodents_.”

“I am taking care of myself!” Éponine gently removed the rat from her shoulder and returned it to the cage. “Just because I’m not rich like you — “

Cosette snorted. “I’m not _rich_.”

“Yeah. Keep telling yourself that.”

“Really, I’m not!” Cosette sat up in indignation.

Éponine thrust her nose skyward and spoke in falsetto. “‘We’re not rich, E, I swear! My Papa just buys me silk sheets and fancy dresses and makes me brioche French toast every morning to go with the finest single origin coffee he buys for five zillion dollars a pound and grinds in a ceramic burr grinder custom-made for the Fauchele-whatever household.’”

Cosette fell into a laughing fit and lobbed a pillow across the room at Éponine. “Okay, I do _not_ sound like that and I do _not_ have silk sheets and we are _not_ rich just because we don’t drink Folgers.” After a rotten day, she felt strangely buoyed by the sparkle that appeared in Éponine’s eyes at her laughter. “I deeply regret sharing my coffee opinions with you. And telling you about the French toast.”

Éponine grabbed the pillow off the floor and sat next to Cosette. “So, you were saying your dad didn’t like the makeover I gave you?”

Cosette glanced into the bathroom, where the sink was still a dull gray from their experiments with hair dye the night before. “He was just … dramatic about it. Asked if someone had died. Asked if I was depressed. Looked at me all concerned.” She sighed. “Did you parents ever do that?”

Éponine’s laugh was like a bark. At first, Cosette had found its harshness startling, but she’d grown to find it lovably eccentric — like everything else about Éponine.

“No. My mom was in jail before I ever went goth. And I’m not sure my dad even noticed a change.” Tracing the seams in her mattress with a finger, she added in a mumble, “Doubt he’d care if I was depressed anyway.”

“No offense, but your dad seems like a jerk.”

“You’re not wrong.”

There was a pause. Cosette was suddenly flooded with guilt for complaining about her father when all he was doing was … caring too much. Sometimes her father’s love was overwhelming — smothering, even — but she wouldn’t trade him for the world. Whereas Éponine’s dad ….

When Éponine broke the silence, her voice was was surprisingly lighthearted. Her train of thought had clearly gone down a different path than Cosette’s.

“So, what’s it like having a single dad? Does he bring a lot of dates home?”

“Uh, no, actually. I’ve never known him to date anyone. Why?”

Ignoring the question, Éponine gave her a skeptical look. “_No one?_ I mean, I met plenty of my dad’s girlfriends. And he was married.”

“Well. That’s …” Cosette searched for the right word. “… interesting.”

“Not really. What’s interesting is a single man who is — by your account, anyway — extremely sweet having had zero romantic partners in the past ten years. Do you think he’s just keeping them from you? Afraid it will freak you out and mess up your family life?”

“No! He wouldn’t do that. I mean, I don’t think he would. Anyway, he hardly ever leaves the house, so I don’t know where he’d fit these secret rendezvous in. I think he’s just really shy.”

“Still. He must have dated your mother at some point. Or at least, you know, hooked up with her.”

Cosette’s face involuntarily wrinkled in disgust at the notion of her dad “hooking up” with anyone, but that wasn’t why she was vehemently shaking her head. “No, Ep, he didn’t. I’m adopted. Apparently my mother worked with him, and when she died, he took me in. I barely remember any of that, though.”

“Oh.” Éponine had a strange expression, almost as if she was happy to hear this news, but all she said was “I’m sorry. About your mom.”

There was so much Cosette wanted to say on the subject, so many feelings she’d rarely been able to express: Her pain at barely being able to recall her mother, her anger at her father for keeping so many details about that time secret, her curiosity and fear about _why_ he kept them secret … but before she could give voice to any of these feelings, Éponine pressed on.

“You’re _sure_ he’s never brought someone home?”

Cosette sighed. “Yes. Why are —”

“But he’s … he is gay, right?”

The question took Cosette aback.

“No, he’s not … well … I suppose I don’t really know. I’ve never considered it before. He could be.” She looked askance at Éponine. “What makes you think that? And why are you so interested in Papa’s dating life, anyway? He’s a bit old for you.”

Éponine snorted. “Too old for me, and too gay for me.” She paused, giving Cosette a mischievous smile. “_Well_. You can’t tell your dad about this. At least, not yet. But I want to set him up with someone.”

“You don’t even know him! And who would you possibly set him up with? I don’t want him dating any of your dad’s creepy gang friends.” Cosette gave her friend a deeply suspicious look. Éponine was great, but she was nervous to introduce _her_ to her father — let alone anyone else in the girl’s social circle.

Éponine seemed hurt. “I know people who aren’t gang members! Plus, I’m sure he’ll like this guy.”

“How? You don’t even know him! And we don’t even know if he likes _guys_.”

“He’ll like this one.”

“_How do you know?”_

“Because it’s someone he used to date.” Cosette stared at her. Éponine was looking very pleased, grinning from ear to ear. “Or at the very least, it’s someone who really, really wishes they used to date.”

* * *

“Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?”

Lola floated above him, wearing crinkly gloves and a concerned expression.

Now that the warm water had stopped running, Valjean could feel the cold seeping into his wet scalp. He shivered. “Yes. I want Cosette to know that I support and understand her.”

Lola still looked skeptical. “I wish to go on record, again, as saying this is not the best way to do that.”

“Duly noted, Lo. Now let’s get this over with.”

Lola squeezed some liquid onto his head and worked it through his hair with her gloved fingers. “I loved your white curls, you know that?” she muttered sadly.

* * *

His hair didn’t turn out the sleek, cold black of Cosette’s, but an ashy sort of gray. Still, there was no mistaking it for the product of natural aging: It had a macabre look to it, like mushrooms sprouting up through decay.

Valjean could barely recognize the man in the mirror. With the help of the Internet and a local shopping mall, the mirror person had cobbled together a full gothic outfit. A spiked black collar adorned the man’s neck and his biceps were straining the sleeves of a studded leather jacket. Form-fitting leather pants with several non-functional zippers led down to tall, chunky boots with several non-functional straps. Valjean did a double-take at his own matte black nail polish as he double-checked all the fasteners on his outfit.

A stranger in the mirror. Was that what Cosette saw? Was that what she _wanted_ to see? What part of this appealed to her?

Valjean sighed and opened the door. He spread his arms out and twirled slowly.

Lola quirked an eyebrow. “That’s … a lot of leather.”

“Yeah, well, I want to look the part.”

“I’m not _entirely_ convinced it sends the signal you’re looking for.”

“Why not?” Valjean couldn’t keep his disappointment out of his voice. He’d shopped for hours, seemingly reviewing every black clothing item in his size. He’d scrolled through dozens of strange websites. He’d spent hundreds of dollars and covered his hair in foul-smelling chemicals. Had he gotten it wrong, even after all this effort?

Lola hesitated, eyeing him from head to toe. “Never mind. Cosette will get the picture. Just promise me you won’t leave the house in that. Not that you ever leave the house anyway.”

“I left the house today,” he said, sheepishly.

“For the first time in living memory,” she teased. She was squinting now, peering at his chest. “What’s with the shirt?”

“Oh! This?” Valjean grinned and opened the leather jacket wider to reveal the button-up shirt. It was black with a polka dot-like pattern of clown faces and red balloons. “Isn’t it fun? I realize it might be a bit cheery for a goth outfit, but I just need _something_ that wasn’t solid black. Plus, I found it in a very gothic store. I believe it was called The Hot Topic.”

“You …. you do realize that’s Pennywise, right?” 

“What?”

“I take it you’re not a horror fan.”

“Horror? Like the movie genre? Oh, gosh, no.” Valjean scrunched up his face. “Why would anyone want to watch that stuff?”

“Well, that clown is from a horror movie. He kills children.”

Valjean blinked at her for a moment. Then he sank onto the couch rubbed his forehead.

“Christ. Why is the world so dark, Lola?”

“Dunno. Now stop moping and get up. I need to teach you about eyeliner.”

* * *

“But Papa doesn’t even like cops!” Cosette had protested.

But after listening to Éponine’s story and reconsidering her dad’s actions in light of it, she began to wonder: Did her father get anxious around cops because of some bad interaction with one in the past? Or was his anxiety actually because he’d had feelings for an officer — perhaps even been romantically involved with one — and the reminder of it was too much to bear? After going over all the facts with Éponine, she was convinced it was the latter.

His weirdness about cops had always been an aspect of her dad’s personality that just didn’t fit. Cosette knew that most of the Covingtons’ employees had sketchy pasts, and between that, her father’s reluctance to share his, and his avoidance of the police, she’d always wondered if he’d done something shady in his youth. It was perplexing, though, because he father was the softest and kindest soul she knew. The idea of him harming anyone was utterly incongruous with the person who raised her. And besides — a love affair with a policeman would go a long way toward explaining his strange obsession with those cop dramas. All that damn _Law & Order_ … was it his way of reminiscing about a lost love?

By the time she got home, the resentment she’d been harboring about the morning’s events had faded and Cosette had only warm feelings toward her father. She’d spent two hours speculating and plotting with Éponine. She had always worried that her dad was lonely. Was his solitude and oddly penitent demeanor just the result of a broken heart? And could they mend it?

They’d find out soon enough. Their study group was holding an end-of-semester social for students and their families, and Éponine had already secured, with much wheedling and some guilt-tripping about his role in arresting her biological parents, an assurance from Javert that he’d attend. Cosette knew her dad wouldn’t require much convincing.

Balancing her purse, phone, and lavender latte, Cosette unlocked the little green door of the gardener’s cottage.

She’d only taken a few steps inside when she jumped back with a little high-pitched squeal, staring motionlessly at the specter in the living room as her latte fell to the floor.

“Oh, Cosette,” the specter — no, that was her papa, she realized, trying to slow her racing heartbeat — sighed, ducking into the kitchen and reappearing with a mop. “I’ve made you drop your coffee.”

Cosette watched him, frozen. It was a moment before she could speak.

“Papa! Is everything ok? Wha … what the hell are you wearing?”

“I bought some nice new clothes at the mall today. You don’t like them?” She would’ve thought he was mocking her if his tone wasn’t so earnest.

“But you’re wearing all black. And so much … leather. You’re not a goth, Papa. You’ve never dressed like this before.”

“Are _only_ goths allowed to wear black?”

Cosette just shook her head — not to answer “no,” but in an attempt to shake off the nagging feeling that this was all a phantasmagorical dream.

“But … your hair! What happened to your hair?”

Her dad was carrying the mop and bucket back into the kitchen now. He called over his shoulder, “I dyed it. Obviously.”

Cosette’s vision was starting to spin and she felt a sudden, overwhelming need to lie down. “I have a headache. I’m going to bed early,” she said, already starting up the stairs.

Once she had settled into bed, her breathing steadier and her heartbeat returning to normal, Cosette noticed something new on her dresser and leaned forward to get a better look.

Her favorite coffee mug was there, newly repaired with some sort of golden lacquer that flashed across the townhouses like lightening. Rising above the mug were two perfect, velvety black tulips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valjean read about the Japanese art of kintsugi in one of his books and used it to repair Cosette's mug and repurpose it as a vase.
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kintsugi


End file.
